One Old Man

The tub of homemade soup and box of groceries I brought the day before, sit undisturbed in the garage, on the floor, amongst heaps of cabbages, rotting garbage. Paper. Paper. Everywhere. Piles of paper. Bottles. Heaps of things. In here, a raccoon cage, in the sun room. It could be called the sun room. Sunlight does stream in. Warmth, comfort. More and more heaps. Litter boxes. Roasting pans. Treadmill. Moldy slippers. Boots. Shovels. Tools. Pool cues. House junk. Garage junk. Barn junk. I ignore it. He has never wanted anyone to notice, I think. His life. Him. His anything. I wonder.
I was last inside this house in 1970 something. Today, I bring a friend. A doctor. The day before, I dismissed the hesitancy, "Nobody cares what your house looks like, it's you who is important." I focus on his face. His voice. His breathing. I acknowledge what he says. I laugh and frown in agreement. Should I sit on the yellow chair from 1940 something? If I could have gotten to it. I would have. To make him comfortable.
He spends his days shooting pool in the kitchen, when able to stand. Reading medical books. Feeding cats. Listening to the T.V. No phone. People will spy. He smells. He's unshaven. I am glad ammonia overpowers rotting garbage. Ammonia is easier to smell. How do we become insular? Is he insular because he is afraid? Did someone harm him? Was love unrequited? When did he accept this? Why?
I thought of how his life has intersected mine. Births, deaths, funerals, weddings. A hospital waiting room. The occasional meeting in the pet food aisle. Bread left at the door. The rare telephone call. His. Mine. Only when needful. More would be uncomfortable. A neighbour calling, "No water in the house. No heat." Better go see. Detouring on the way into Town. No tracks, no car in the yard. Better go see. Standing in the rain of an overgrown yard, "Your sister died last night.""Can we take your blood pressure?"
"Yeah."
"Can we take your blood?"
"Okay."
"Will you let us dress your legs?"
"Do you know what burns feel like?! See, that's my cat. Martha!"
Martha is beautiful. Bluey-gray, variegated fur. Turquoise eyes. Well fed. She begs to come in.
"She's wild. She was dropped off here. They always drop off their cats here. They know I'm a sucker. And their dogs. Their dogs are stupid though. Martha! She's the mother of all the cats. Look at what they did to my house. Why would anyone want to break in here? But they do. They want to break in here and steal my stuff."
"What day is it?" we ask.
"You think I'm crazy!? What would make you think I'm crazy? It's Friday."
It is."Something isn't right," my friend says, once outside. "How many years did you go to school to figure that out," I begin to giggle. My impertinence. We reach for each others arms to suppress the emotion. I drive to the end of the road and turn toward Town. The doctor's car is already stopped at the lab. To deliver the blood. I travel on. To the lake. Stop. I stare. I put the windows down. Cold odourless air. When do we notice truth? When our insulation gets a little wet? Rodent infested? Begins to reek? Tears. Just a few. I will return tomorrow. Here, and there.